


Diurnal

by boomingvoice



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M, Make the Yuletide Gay, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomingvoice/pseuds/boomingvoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4pm is far too early to be awake, but only Nick seems to know this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diurnal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strippedhalo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strippedhalo/gifts).



You haven’t seen the sun in days.

When you wake up it’s like this: blink once, blearily, as the evening falls; run dry hands through blond hair; scratch scalp; turn over and curl up for another hour, or two, or three. Sometimes you go clubbing, if you can drag yourself to the shower. Sometimes, most of the time, you pad around the hotel room, wondering why you stayed to see a white Christmas in New York when the green Christmases in L.A. are all you wanted. It’s 9 am and the curtains have been drawn since you checked in four days ago.

The Boys are gone. Busy, of course—it’s holiday season. Kevin with his life and his baby, Howie on a Lupus cruise with his bride and two hundred fans, AJ and his new brunette picking out a puppy as a Christmas present, and Brian, of course, in a living room with a crowd of golden haired perfection. Busy as bees.

You’re not bitter, you think. Tired, and lonely, and a little jealous, yes, but you wish them all the best. They can’t help the fact they have people in their life they love and trust.

You’re not bitter. Just tired.

You head back to bed.

*

The cell goes off, Kanye’s Good Morning blaring. A part of you notes this would be funny, except that the rest of you argues it’s really not. You grab the stupid thing and stare sleepily at the caller ID. Brian thought it would be a good idea to call at 4 pm. You’ll have to talk to him about that. You hit silent and bury your head back in the pillow.

You imagine the message heading to voicemail right now. Maybe he says hey, and makes a dumb joke. Definitely wishes you happy holidays. Makes an awkward but kindly offer to spend Christmas in Atlanta. The thought of that makes you cringe, and you’re unequivocally happy you didn’t answer. Christmas alone in New York will be okay. Maybe you’ll watch Home Alone 2.

*

The phone rings again, this time at six, and you’re awake for it. You recognize the area code, but not the number. You pick up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Nick?” You know the voice and you wonder what brought this call.

“JC? What’s up, man?”

“Nothing, dude. AJ told me you decided to hang out on the East Coast after the Jingle Ball—I was in the city, wondered if you wanted to chill.”

You perk up. “Dude, that’d be awesome. I haven’t seen anyone in ages.” The two of you make plans.

*

He looks good. You’ve showered and brushed your teeth, and your gums are still remembering the sting of the mouthwash when he kisses you hello.

There’s always something sweetly affirming about hooking up with JC. He’s unmistakably there for just the sex, but the friendly affection he feels towards you and your body is so genuine you can’t help but smile around his cock at the things you hear him say. You like being with him. Vanity says the two of you must look striking, him so dark and pale, you blond and tan, with the bone structure that’s so eerily similar under the right light. You contemplate bringing the camcorder out, but say nothing. The problem there is JC would readily agree, and after dating two celebrities with infamous sex tapes, you have learned some discretion. Paris may have never talked about hers, but Tommy cheerfully cussed out every sick bleeding fuck to have ever downloaded the piece of shit tape each time the topic came up. You decided then that’s a lesson you’ll be happy not to learn first hand.

Still, when you see that long, lean body, and think of those thighs wrapped around your waist, you’re tempted—but he’s fallen asleep. You let out a small huff of frustration. You’ll be awake for a good six more hours.

*

It’s 10.30 am. You’re still awake, and JC’s still asleep. You’re sketching him for lack of anything better to do, quick, furtive strokes on lined paper, when there’s a knock at the door. You check to see who it is, and—this is a surprise.

“Brian.”

“Hey.” He shuffles his feet. “I was wondering if you were up.”

You’re still shocked. “What are you doing here?”

He frowns a bit. “I called.”

“I—“ He had. You stop yourself from saying something stupid. “Can we--,” you glance back at your bed, “can we talk in your room?”

He glances back there as well, raises an eyebrow. “Sure,” he says.

*

He’s ordered room service, and so you’re nibbling on a bagel while Brian avoids explaining the situation.

“So wait,” you say, “I don’t get it. Did she kick you out?”

“No. Or, well, technically yes? But not really. I’m not, like, kicked _out_.”

“You’re just not allowed home. And so you’re living in a hotel the week before Christmas.”

“Yes.”

“Brian.” You’re whining a bit, and you _hate_ that, but somehow near him you always manage to turn back into a spotty teenager.

“Yes, Nick?” You think you see him bite back a smile. This is too much.

“Nothing.” And you hope to God you’re not a sulking twenty-seven year old. “I’m gonna go see if JC is alright.”

“Is that who it was?” He says this blandly, and suddenly you’re a bit shy.

*

JC’s ordered room service in your absence, and is sipping coffee on the sofa. You smile at him and curl up in the warmth he left in the bed. You’re getting tired, and you can feel it pressing down on you. You tell him Brian’s in town, down the hall, in fact.

“Really?” He says, and arches an eyebrow.

You giggle at that, and now you _know_ it’s bedtime. “Yeah. And he did the same thing when he saw I had someone in here.”

“What thing?”

“The eyebrow thing.” You mimic it, and pout a bit to maximize the effect.

JC laughs. He comes over and kisses you, familiar and coffee flavored. “I’m headed out, I think, but it looks like you need some sleep, cat.”

You ‘mmm’ in agreement. You watch him let himself out, and then stretch out under the blankets. JC is nice. You close your eyes. So is sleep.

*

Someone is again disturbing your rest at the ungodly hour of 4 pm. You moan, and you’re tired enough that you’re almost not embarrassed at your fucked up sleep schedule. You take two seconds to roll over and decide to ignore the door.

Five minutes later the phone is ringing. You check the ID and very nearly cry. You flip it open. “Brian. Fuck off.”

“Nick, come open the door.”

“No.” You throw the phone at the door. It hits with a dull thunk, which Brian answers with persistent knocking. You hate Brian. You go open the door.

“Hey beautiful,” he says with a grin. His eyes are very blue and you wonder how shot your own must be.

You consider punching him. You tell him that. He smiles, and then you really do try, only you’re so slow with sleep that he just laughs as he twists aside and takes hold of your fist.

“Come to bed,” he says, and you feel your face redden. He takes his own advice and hops on the bed. “Come,” he says, and pats the hollow spot where you had been five minutes before. There’s nothing for it. You listen to him, and crawl back under the covers. He tucks the covers in around you, and as you drift back to sleep you think you feel fingers softly combing through your hair. You realize you don’t know why he needed to come in, but you’re too close to oblivion to ask.

*

You wake around seven, alone and in the dark. This is nothing new, really, but you still feel a slow sink in your center. You rub the sleep from your eyes, absently scratch your balls, and wonder how your life came to this.

 _He’s married_ , you think once more.

*

It’s eight o’ clock, and you’ve eaten, showered, and dressed. JC’s got an 11.00 pm flight, but he said he’d come by.

When he arrives, the two of you fuck against the couch. JC is bent over the arm, grunting with each of your thrusts, and when you’re both done he turns and looks at you. He’s breathtaking in the lamp light. The sheen of his sweat shows off the symmetry of his face, and you notice for the first time the splash of hazel in the center of the grey-blue of his irises. You wish, unexpectedly, that you could love him.

He tells you, as his Christmas gift to you, two things: things are not always what they seem; and say yes.

You look at him a moment, waiting for further explanation. With none forthcoming, you nod and say thanks. You kiss him, and mumble that you’re glad you didn’t get him a present. He bites.

*

Brian comes by an hour after JC’s left.

“I’m bored,” he says.

You pat the spot beside you in bed. “Isn’t it your bedtime?” You ask, as he makes himself comfortable.

“Not quite yet,” he says. “And you’re one to talk about bedtimes. Who sleeps at four in the afternoon?”

“The Spanish.”

“Siestas don’t count,” he chides, and lays back in the bed.

“Me, then.”

“Yeah, you.” He reaches up to stroke your bicep affectionately. You hold still. His hand falls back, and he pillows his cheek. “You know,” he says, “you were supposed to be my Christmas present.”

“I—what?” It’s a joke, you think. You don’t get it.

“My Christmas present. From Leighanne. A week to have fun. Didn’t realize you were taken already.”

You’re not quite sure you understand what is being said. “I don’t get it.”

Brian chuckles. He sits up and moves close to you, slowly placing a soft hand on your jaw. “You really don’t?” He asks gently.

Your mouth is dry. Brian looks at you one long moment, and moves back. Your skin misses the warmth.

“But Christmas Eve is tomorrow and I need to go back to Atlanta.” He lays down again. “Celebrate with the family, and all.” You swallow. “You’re welcome to come, of course.” He sees the look on your face. “Or not.”

*

He spends the night in your bed, and so you watch him sleep beside you. This is an old habit. The soft rise and fall of his chest is something you know. You leave, eventually, and do the night things you do, playing your games and surfing the internet, but knowing that presence is there, the constant soft inhale and exhale, makes this night at the hotel one of your nicest. You had missed the company.

*

In the morning he leaves with a hug, and you go to bed. You miss him.

*

Christmas day, you wake at six in the evening. You blink, and run your hands through your hair. Maybe you’ll take a shower now, you think tentatively. You don’t feel like staying in bed.

You’re showered and in the midst of brushing your teeth when a knock at the door startles you. You open, and it’s him. Of course it’s him. Brian smiles, that wide goofy grin he can’t help, and you run back to the bathroom to rinse your mouth.

“You know,” you say as you come back to the doorway. “I can’t say _yes_ if you won’t fucking ask me.”

Brian bites down his grin. “Ask you what?”

“Idunno.” You walk up to him. With the tips of your fingers you touch his cheekbones, featherlight. “Can I touch you,” you say. You lean forward, and brush his lips with that same lightness. “Can I kiss you, maybe,” you say. “Or,” you breathe in his ear, “will you fuck me.” You lean back. “Anything, really.”

Brian’s eyes are sparkling. “Can I—“

“Yes.”

*

It’s morning. You slept last night, near a body that wanted you. You slept well. Brian’s up, being obnoxious, being cheerful. As he pulls open the curtains, you’re blinded by the sunlight for the first time in weeks. This is Christmas.

-fin-


End file.
